


Dean To The Res-Clue!

by Cerdic519



Category: Clue | Cluedo - All Media Types, Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bonding, Cock Rings, Episode Fix-it, French Maids, Gay Sex, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Hickeys, Kissing, M/M, Mating, Orgasm Delay, Panties, Post-Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower, References To Sleeping Beauty, Temporary Character Death, Vibrators, Weapons, ropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-12 02:03:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 5,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11151900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Castiel, Angel of the Lord - is he really dead? It seems that the angel sensed his approaching end and left Dean a chance to get him back. All the hunter has to do is to enter a certain board game and collect certain items to get his belov.... ahem, his buddy back. Simple!Er......





	1. Not Quite Dead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ginger_angel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginger_angel/gifts), [MelodyofWings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelodyofWings/gifts), [ChocolateHydra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocolateHydra/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is hope.....

After losing Cas, Dean Winchester had thought that his life could not possibly get any worse. Which just went to show how much he underestimated the Universe's ability to kick a man when he was down. Because arriving back at the Bunker with Sam, there was a horribly familiar figure waiting for them.

“Gabriel!” the elder Winchester growled. “Not a good time. Scram!”

The golden-eyes archangel eyed him warily from across a very solid table.

“I bring news about Cassie”, he said.

“Call him that again, and I'll summon you into a ring of fire, then sell you to KFC as barbecued wings!”

The archangel shifted nervously.

“You see, there's this sort of chance that he might not be all dead.”

Both hunters just stared at him.

“Not all dead?” Sam managed at last. “How? That's like saying someone's not all pregnant!”

“Angels are not like you humans”, Gabriel said loftily. “Cass...” (he visibly shuddered at the look on Dean's face) “Castiel should've returned to Heaven when he died, but he didn't turn up.”

“So?” Dean asked testily, thinking pointedly about charred archangel.

“So he left some of his grace somewhere”, Gabriel explained. “That's the only way he could have failed to get back upstairs with Daddy. He'll stay in limbo until it's found.”

Dean felt his hopes rising, dammit.

“You saying we might get him back?” he demanded. “'Cause if you're trying something here, even your Daddy won't save you from me!”

“There's the pulse of his grace coming from that bookshelf over there”, the archangel said, pointing to the heavily laden seven-shelf monstrosity that Sam was always moaning at Dean for messing up. “Did he have a book from there recently?”

Sam shook his head.

“He was reading The Hitch-hiker's Guide To The Galaxy, which I loaned him from my room”, he said. “And he only ever does one book at a time.”

Dean's eyes widened.

“Oh.”

Sam and Gabriel both looked at him.

“'Oh?'” Sam asked. “Dean?”

“I was trying to teach him 'Clue' the other night”, he said. “He said it was pointless, as he could just use his grace to scan each room to find whodunnit, how and where.”

“He knew”, Gabriel said softly.

“What?” Dean asked.

“He knew he was going to die”, the archangel said. “Angels don't exist in time like you humans. He sensed his death approaching, and left his grace scattered around the game.”

“So can we get him back if we find it?” Dean almost shouted.

“Yes.”

Dean stared warily at the archangel.

“I just know there's a but coming”, he growled.

“No but”, Gabriel said cheerfully.

Dean stared at him suspiciously.

“However”, Gabriel said, pointedly keeping the table between himself and the hunter, “you'll have to go into the game and collect the pieces of his grace. If we can get all of them, then he can come back.”

“How do I go into a board game?” Dean asked.

“All things like that generate their own alternative universe”, Gabriel explained. “You have to go to Tudor Mansion, collect the bits of grace – I would guess they have to be in the game weapons – and then... well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Dean can't put himself at risk just like that”, Sam objected. “He would never...”

“When do we start?” Dean said.

+~+~+

Dean may have had one small, very minor, almost infinitesimally tiny concern over this whole plan. Yeah, he wanted his angel back - but during that game, there was the small, very minor, almost infinitesimally tiny possibility that he may or may not have had perhaps one or more thoughts about the eternal scruff that, in an uncharitable light, could in an uncharitable light have been described as borderline improper. 

Perhaps. Ever so slightly. On a bad day. And he'd needed that cold shower afterwards anyway.


	2. The Hall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plumduff.

It was a dark and stormy night.

It actually was. Dean found himself outside a building whose outline was barely visible against the almost black night sky, only the weak light coming from some of the windows making it stand out. Fortunately there was a sign next to the door which proclaimed the building to be 'Tudor Mansion'. Which meant that Gabriel wasn't on his way to becoming KFC chow.

Yet.

Dean approached the heavy oaken door, and almost jumped out of his skin when it slowly creaked open to reveal a poorly-lit hall. He stepped warily into the building.

Inside it was not too bad, a wide hall with many doors leading off left and right, and a large, ornate stairway ascending to the second floor. And the hall was not empty. A man was stood examining one of the portraits with his back to Dean, dressed in a virulent plum-colored suit. That, Dean guessed, had to be Professor Plum. 

Then the figure turned round, and Dean noticed two more things. First, the guy was wielding a large and blooded spanner. And second, it was Cas. Cas in a far too tight-fitting waistcoat that made Dean momentarily light-headed as all his blood made a mad dash for his lower brain. He risked a sharp glare downwards; not for the first time, his libido could use some work on its timing.

“You must be Dean Winchester”, the professor growled, and yup, that was the angel's graveled tones. But the perfectly-styled hair, the waistcoat, the round glasses, the waistcoat, the feral look, the waistcoat.....

“I am Professor Demetrius Plum.”

Breathe. Yup, Dean was sure he could do that. Fairly sure.

The professor advanced on him, and Dean tottered momentarily as he backed into a very solid table. That distracted him long enough for the professor to get his hand somewhere that no man other than Dean had gone before, the professor's iron grip making Little Dean perk up even more. The hunter may have let out a noise that an uncharitable person might have described as a whine, but he would deny it to his dying day - which, if that hand kept on doing what it was doing, might not be that far away!

The professor grinned and worked Dean's now iron-hard cock even more. Dean let out a keening noise as his eyes watered.

“Have mercy!” he moaned.

“As you wish”, came the familiar growl in reply. The guy then somehow managed to do something to Dean's balls that made the hunter come violently, gasping as he tried to catch his breath.

“Very good”, the professor growled. “One down, eight to go. Keep 'up' the good work.”

And with that he withdrew his hand and sauntered off through one of the side-doors, leaving the spanner and what was left of a shattered hunter behind him.

+~+~+

Once he was sure he could stand up without falling over, Dean had to get rid of his soaked underwear. Looked like he was doing the rest of this gig commando, but hey, he was Dean Winchester. He could cope. 

That 'eight to go' worried him very, very slightly, though.


	3. The Study

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean gets a grip - sorta....

Dean's first hand job from another guy had, he soon realized, soaked his pants as well as his underwear. Fortunately one of the doors off the hall was labelled 'Airing-Room' which, he guessed, meant there might be clothes in there. There were – but no pants. The only thing to wear down below was, embarrassingly, a skirt so short that it would have been banned in several states. Well, better than nothing, so he put it on, grateful that no-one could see the manly Dean Winchester in such a travesty. There was also a holdall, which he took for the weapons.

He chose a random door to the right of the cupboard, and went down a corridor until he came to a door marked 'Study'. One of the rooms he had to go into, he remembered, so he carefully pushed open the door.

And froze.

Well, that answered the question about the female characters. A sharply-dressed Cas in a medium-blue business suit was sat in a large padded chair by a bow window, and on the nearby desk was the name-plate for a 'Mr. Godwin Peacock'. And judging from the tent in those sharply-pressed pants, at least the last part of that name was all too accurate.

“Ah, my ever reliable secretary”, the businessman beamed. “Take a seat, Dean.”

The hunter was about to remark that there were no other chairs when he got it. Apparently his dignity – well, what was left after that spectacular hand-job – wasn't going to survive for long in his quest. He walked casually forward and..... remembered the skirt.

The businessman licked his lips, and growled appreciatively.

“How appropriate”, he smirked, sliding down his zip and whipping out one very large cock. “Seat, Dean!”

It is just vaguely possible that there may have been an expression of surprise as Dean felt that cold, hard cock touch Little Dean who, impressively even for him, was rising to attention again. Then the businessman shifted his position slightly, and Dean nearly came right there and then.

“Take a letter”, Mr. Peacock said, grinding his cock against Dean's as if he had a vendetta against it. The hunter groaned, but reached for the notepad and pencil on the desk.

That was when he noticed the blooded piece of lead-piping. He was half-sure it had not been there when he came in, but then his upper brain had been already yielding control to his lower one. The businessman somehow got his hand in under Dean's t-shirt beneath his plaid overshirt, and......

Not the nipples! Not the nipples! Dean was damn sensitive there!

Worse, the businessman toyed around his left nipple with a cold hand while saying something about.... something, as Dean's breathing got ever faster. He was doing something with the pencil on the notepad, but God alone knew what.

“Are you paying attention, Dean?”

The hunter blinked his eyes clear of all the water in them, and stared blearily at the smooth businessman. A pair of ice-blue eyes stared back at him, then the guy smiled a slow, cruel smile.

One hand suddenly tweaked Dean's nipple. And the cold grip around the base of his cock told the hunter exactly where the other hand had gotten too. He wailed his displeasure, but there was no release, as Mr. Peacock had him in a vice-like grip.

“I could hold you like this for hours”, came the familiar growl. “I could keep pushing you up to the edge, then letting you drift back, then up, then back, then up.....”

“Nooooo!”

The grip suddenly vanished, and for a moment Dean sat there disbelieving before his body suddenly realized what was happening and he came violently. The businessman milked him through it, until the hunter was crying at the over-sensitivity. 

“Well done”, he praised. “Two down, seven to go.”

Dean staggered out of his lap, scooped the lead-piping into the holdall and almost fell over his feet as he high-tailed it to the door. He prayed that there was something else in that airing cupboard that he had missed, because the skirt was now ruined!


	4. The Library

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look, Dean was probably going to Hell anyway....

Very suspiciously, there was now a pair of khaki shorts – very short shorts - in the airing-cupboard which, while they too might have gotten him arrested in some states, would have to do. They were tight but manageable (no, he did not pose for some minutes before the long mirror admiring his ass, thank you very much!), and Dean set off in search of more rooms. 

Damn, even walking hurt!

+~+~+

There had been a turning in the corridor to the study, and this time Dean turned left, eventually finding himself outside a door marked 'Library'. Pushing it open, he walked in and....

Oh come on! God was having a laugh with him now!

Cas, dressed in a green surplice with the writing 'Demetrius Green: Heaven's Angel' on the front. And from those bare ankles, he was not wearing much underneath.

From that tent rising in the nether regions, he was not wearing anything underneath!

“Where's the weapon?” Dean managed, in a voice that sounded like he'd been inhaling helium.

The reverend grinned and pointed downwards.

“I had to ask!” Dean groaned, dropping to his knees in front of the cleric and raising the surplice. Sure enough, he could feel what felt like the candlestick up there..... oh.

Nope. Not the candlestick.

“Keep going!” the cleric growled.

Oh well. Dean's dignity was shot to hell anyway. Might as well finish the job.

He manhandled the impressive cock, feeling rather pleased at the groans and growls he was wringing out of its owner (whom he would never call junkless again, by the way!), then slowly started working his way down its length.

“Ohhhhh yeeeeeeaaahhhh!” the cleric moaned.

The man was shaking now, his hands grasping Dean's shoulders through the surplice. The hunter grinned, and tickled his victim behind the balls.

He went off like a rocket, with such force that Dean was almost forced clean off. He pulled himself off and used the surplice to wipe himself clean, before noting the blooded candlestick on the nearby table.

“You said it was under there!” he said accusingly. The cleric grinned a familiar grin.

“I only said I had a weapon down there!” he corrected. “I didn't say which one. Three down, six to go.”

Six, Dean thought as he put the candlestick into the holdall. Never mind getting Cas back; he might not survive six more encounters like this one. Here lies Dean Winchester, sexed to death by his angel.

So definitely the way to go. Just... not yet, please!


	5. The Billiard-Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cruise control?

At least he hadn't had to change his clothes this time, Dean thought as he approached the door marked 'Billiard-Room'. There was a vaguely familiar tune coming from behind it, but he still hadn't placed it as he opened the door. 

Ah. The theme from 'Top Gun'. Obvious, really. If not because of the white-suited and beauti.... good-looking man in a perfectly-pressed pilot's outfit leaning against the small bar in the corner of the room, with a poison-bottle next to him. The name-tag on his suit read 'James Mustard', and Dean was as keen as to see him out of it.

He sauntered over to the pilot as boldly as he didn't feel, but the man smirked at him and came to meet him halfway, walking Dean back to the billiard-table where he effortlessly hoisted the hunter onto his back. And when he ripped the shorts from his body in one easy movement, well, Dean would have protested, but Little Dean was a-okay with that. He had to be; most of Dean's blood supply was down there with him.

“Very nice”, came the familiar growl as Dean's legs were hoisted high into the air. “Needs work, of course.”

Dean pouted.

“I'm fit as.... holy fuck!”

The pilot was working him open in short order, and doing things to Dean's prostate that were certainly immoral, probably illegal, and hot as fuck. The world swam about the hunter, until the suited figure loomed back into view between his raised legs.

“All those stories you never read about how we first coupled on that website of yours”, he grinned. “And not one of them mentioned a billiard-table.”

Dean blushed fiercely. Damn angel know-all! Then he felt a huge pressure at his entrance, and his assailant was pushing in.

And in.

And in.

And in.

Ye Gods, where was he heading? Canada?

Then the pilot hoisted him easily into his arms, and began to walk around the room with the wrecked hunter impaled on his cock. Dean felt his senses blowing as he came violently all over the man's suit, and he kept coming even when his cock hurt from over-sensitivity, his eyes watering (no, they were not tears, shut up). He grabbed onto the man, who after a few more steps carried him back to the billiard-table and laid him down. The hunter heard the poison-bottle being placed next to him, but movement was impossible just now.

“Four down, five to go”, the pilot smirked. “Not even halfway yet!”

Dean was gonna die! But at least the bastard left him a tissue with which he could stop his eyes watering (still not tears, shut up).


	6. The Conservatory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Tarzan moment

There was something vaguely questionable in walking around a country house in just his socks and a t-shirt – the shorts had been a write-off – but Dean Winchester was too well-fucked to care. He had had Cas – well, Cas as a pilot, which made it even hotter – inside him for the first time. And he was nearly halfway to getting his angel back.

A sharper hunter might have noted that each experience was more intense than the last, but what little remained of Dean's upper brain was too fried to care. His manliness was shot to pieces anyway, and frankly he didn't really care.

+~+~+

The sign on the door read: 'Conservatory – 'Steven Buff'. Taking a deep breath, Dean pushed open the door.

Okay. Well, this was a bit more than a glasshouse with a few potted plants in it. In fact, this was like someone had taken a sizeable wedge of Amazonian rainforest, and dumped it in a room whose ceiling was somewhere was up there beyond the fronds. Dean followed a track for some little way through between the trees until he came to a clearing, in which there was a wooden hut. He approached warily, and pushed open the door.

Score! There on the table was the blooded trophy. And no sign of the sex-crazed angel in whatever guise he was in this time (Dean was not sure whether he was pleased or disappointed at that). He strode over and grabbed the trophy....

He heard the whistling sound far too late, and by the time he went to turn round, the rope was around his body, pinning his arms uselessly to his side. He managed to turn round, and.... oh fuck! There was Steve Buff – in the buff except for a leopard-skin loin-cloth. And clearly, this particular lord of the jungle was mightily pleased to see him.

Dean really was gonna die!

“Looks like I roped me a wild one”, the almost-naked man grinned. “C'mere, gorgeous.”

Like Dean had any choice. Still, he supposed things could be worse.

+~+~+

Four minutes later Dean was trussed up beneath a solid beam, tighter than a Thanksgiving turkey with his entrance presented to his captor. Yup, things could be worse.

Then he felt something cold pushing at his entrance. Cold. And plastic. He knew with a feeling of horror just what it was, and Little Dean was not helping matters by rising rapidly to attention.

The 'Buff' guy swam into view, grinning evilly as he worked something inside the hunter. Unless he was inhumanly flexible – and knowing the angel, that was not to be ruled out – he couldn't be fucking Dean. So it had to be.... wait, was that a remote?

The doctor smirked and pressed a button on his remote. Dean screamed so loudly that his voice actually went off the scale, coming violently as the vibrator pulsed inside of him. He gasped for breath, as the figure loomed over him.

“I know it's a cliché”, he said as the ropes fell away from Dean, “but it's only going to get.... harder from now on. At least you're over halfway through. Five down, four to go.”

He sauntered out the door, and it took Dean several minutes to pull himself together enough to stand up. Thankfully the trophy was still there, along with a note:

'The vibrator will fall out when you leave the room'.

Why then, Dean wondered as he placed the trophy inside the holdall.

+~+~+

It took him eight long, hard minutes to get back to the door - because the damn vibrator went off seventeen bloody times!


	7. The Lounge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Lounge (v.): to lie, sit or stand in a relaxed or lazy way.'   
> Yes.....

Now wearing just his socks, Dean felt both cold and abused (okay, and gloriously happy) when he finally got outside the room. Minus that damn vibrator, which had done things to his insides that were downright... hawt!

There was a cone with a warning-sign on the corridor ahead, stating 'No Way Through'. Bearing in mind everything that had befallen him so far, he was not minded to push his luck, although he was suspicious that there just happened to be a door before it stating 'Secret Passage To Lounge'. But he was naked, covered in his own come, and frankly past caring. 

It was cold in the narrow passageway, but despite that Little Dean was still ready for action, his master glaring down at him for all the trouble he had gotten him into in the past few hours. In fact Dean nearly contrived to walk right into the door at the end of the passageway, and had to step back top open it into, presumably, the lounge.

“Hey! Look who's here for the orgy!”

Dean blinked. Which may have been his first mistake, for the very naked figure that had been sat in the chair across the room somehow used that time to fling himself onto the hunter. The guy was wearing nothing but a red headband with a strange symbol on it, although Dean didn't exactly have time to examine it as he was staggering back under the assault.

“Oof!” he gasped.

“And ready for it!” the man grinned. “Emmanuel Scarlett, at your service. Although judging from that sword you're wielding, I think you're the one to service me, baby!”

Dean's back was against the door he had just come through, and somehow the guy was grabbing his cock and inserting it into himself. The hunter felt briefly that he ought to have objected about being used in that way, but apparently Little Dean was a-okay with it, so he just moaned and went along with it.

Then the guy started dragging himself up and down on Dean's cock, their nipples rubbing together as he did so. The hunter could hardly see him, with his eyes watering so, which was why he missed the guy nipping at his neck. He was getting closer and closer to coming, any time now....

“Mine!” the guy growled, and bit down hard on Dean's neck.

The hunter roared in surprise and came violently, his legs buckling under the assault. He had always been in for some biting, partly to gross out Sammy when he came back from one of his sexcapades. And now he was Cas' – well, the property of one of Cas' body doubles – whatever.

The guy eased himself off Dean and went and sat down calmly in one of the comfortable chairs, as if assaulting visitors to the room was the norm. Dean staggered to a nearby mirror on the wall, and gulped when he saw the hickey. Hell, it was the size of Montana! 

“Six down, three to go”, the guy grinned. “The other weapon's on the table.”

Dean caught sight of the dagger, before it hit him.

“Other weapon?” he asked.

“Unless you want to try this one!” the guy grinned, and dammit, he was rock-hard and fondling himself.

+~+~+

What was left of Dean staggered from the room twenty minutes later, getting through the door at the fourth attempt. And incredibly he was still hard, dammit!


	8. The Dining-Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean Winchester loves pie. Until today.

Disconcertingly, when a naked (except for his socks) hunter arrived in the dining-room, it seemed at first to be empty. There was a small revolver on the table, next to a delicious-looking apple-pie, so Dean immediately sat down and cut himself a large slice. It was only then that he noticed the open fortune cookie on the plate next to it, with a rolled-up piece of paper by it. He unfurled it and read it:  
'Cooked fast and fresh by Misha White,  
Come only after your last bite.'

That didn't really make sense, so Dean pulled the dish towards him, scooped up a piece and bit into the flaky pastry. 

The good news was that the pie was delicious. The bad news – if it was bad news – was that he discovered that the cook was indeed in the room when a cold hand started fondling Little Dean. Oh fuck, that was what the rhyme meant – he was only to come after the last bite!

For possibly the only time in his life, Dean Winchester ate a piece of pie quickly. But not quickly enough; he was still only halfway through the large slice he had cut himself when he felt his cock tingling a warning, and then.... and then....

The feel of cold iron on his skin. The bastard had put a cock-ring on him. Dean did not know whether to be furious or glad!

He managed to get to the end of his slice, and an annoyingly familiar figure popped up from under the tablecloth. Dean would have glared at him, but his vision was not yet fully returned, along with his sense of direction.

“A good start”, the cook – presumably 'Misha' - grinned. “Carry on.”

What the fuck? Dean stared in horror.

“You have to eat the whole pie”, the cook grinned. “And I have one or two other techniques that will test that cock-ring – possibly to breaking-point.”

Dean Winchester, the manliest man ever to man in a manly-like manner, cried.

+~+~+

Misha using a tongue during the second slice made Dean moan, and he actually missed his mouth a couple of times as his upper brain blanked out.

The feather that the cook used during the third slice should have been illegal. Unfortunately for Dean, it wasn't.

And the hickey that the guy gave him on his inner thigh when he was only two mouthfuls from the end nearly did for him. Dean was sure he felt the metal of the ring giving, but mercifully it held and he jammed in the rest of the pie and gulped it down.

Misha emerged from under the table, and handed him the revolver, which Dean dropped into the his bag. 

“Seven down, but still two to go”, the cook grinned. “And don't forget; it's going to get even more intense from now on!”

Dean would have glared at him, but he didn't have the energy. Reaching down, he un-clipped the ring, forgetting that he was still rock-hard.

His spend hit the wall several feet in front of him, and Dean actually cried at the pain. Finally he was done, and could escape the smirking bastard. Staggering to the door, he fled the room. That had been.....

Hot!


	9. The Kitchen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dean Winchester Philosophy:   
> 1) open mouth,  
> 2) insert foot.

As he approached the door marked 'Kitchen', Dean wondered why he had encountered the cook in the dining-room rather than here. Who or what would he find here – and come to that, would he survive the experience?

He pushed open the door, and was surprised to find that the kitchen in the old building was pretty modern. Chrome surfaces everywhere, and... and....

Nope, Dean was gonna die! Seriously, he could not take much more of this. For standing before him was a familiar figure, bending over a table covered with food. Which would have been okay, except the familiar figure was dressed as a French maid – a maid who, apparently, had not bothered with any underwear that day!

The figure turned round, and smirked at Dean.

Well, well”, he said. “I can see at least part of you is mighty pleased to see little Sergei Ochre.”

“Mwah?” Had there been a bit more blood in Dean Winchester's upper brain, he might have been embarrassed by that noise, but most of it was being triaged off to his lower one. The gorgeous creature sauntered over to Dean, smirking far too loudly, and came right up him.

“What a big boy you are!” he growled. “And I've got something for you!”

“Another weapon?” Dean said hopefully.

To his alarm, the 'maid' whipped out from somewhere a long stick with knobs all the way up its two foot length. Dean's unhelpful mind immediately thought 'dildo', followed by the thought that his insides would up and leave him if anyone tried...

“A shillelagh”, the 'maid' said. “And that's not the only thing I have for you, big boy. Bet you're cold in just those socks.”

“Well, yeah....”

Some day. Some day Dean Winchester's mouth would not land him squarely in the you-know-what. 

Today was not that day.

+~+~+

The 'maid' stood back to admire his handiwork. Dean was now wearing a black negligée and panty set that was so sheer, it might as well have been see-through. There had been a blue set to start with, but the 'maid' had then christened it by giving Dean the blow-job to end all blow-jobs – seriously, the hunter had passed out, and in collapsing had torn the outfit. Luckily the 'maid' had had a spare set ready.

“Angels know all your dark secrets, Dean”, the 'maid' said, handing him the shillelagh and giving the hunter a hungry look that at once made him painfully (if impressively) hard. “Eight down, one to go – and then you can have your fairy-tale ending.”

He sauntered off before the hunter could ask him what that meant. Wearing a sheer black negligée and matching panties (and socks!), Dean wondered as he left if his manliness was, maybe just possibly, under a very slight degree of question....

Nah!


	10. The Ball-Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has to face his ultimate fear.

Not at all enjoying the feel of sheer quality lace against his skin, Dean walked boldly to the last part of his quest, the ball-room. On the large double-doors there was a plaque stating: 'Master Levi Grey, Professional Dominator.'

What was left of Dean's manliness (precious little) was now seeing a lawyer about formally disowning him.

Inside was, unsurprisingly, a large dancing area. At the far end however, where Dean might have expected a band or some such, there was a raised platform on which was a golden throne atop six steps. And sat there, in a Roman gladiator outfit whose leather straps were being stretched by those glistening solid muscles, was a familiar figure.

Incredibly Little Dean shot to attention. Dean glared downwards.

“Come, my boy”, came the familiar growl. “You seek the last weapon.”

Dean's scrambled upper brain could not recall what he was supposed to be looking for, but fortunately someone invisible behind the throne handed the dom a silver tray, on which was a coiled rope. The hunter approached nervously, but when he reached the bottom of the stairs, the dom held up his hand. Dean stopped at once.

“There is a price to pay for any quest”, he said gravely. “Are you prepared to pay that price, Dean Winchester?”

“Yes”, Dean said unhesitatingly.

The dom looked surprise at his assuredness, then smiled slightly.

“You do not yet know how high that price is”, he reminded the hunter.

“This is Cas”, Dean said fervently. “I'd do anything to get him back.”

“Even face your worst fears?” the dom inquired.

“Yup.”

“Very well”, the dom said. “Inside the rope, you will find a small metal bracelet. Put it on.”

Dean did so. It looked innocent enough, which itself made him wary. He also took the rope and put it into his bag with the other weapons.

“That door leads to your final destination”, the dom said. “But understand this, Dean Winchester. If you fulfill this quest while still wearing that bracelet, which contains the tiniest part of a certain angel's grace, then you will be bonded to him for the rest of his existence. Are you ready for such a commitment?”

Okay, that was terrifying. Dean took to commitment like a duck to deep-sea-diving, and there was no way he could ever be good enough for Cas. Cas deserved better. He deserved.....

“Yup”, Dean said. “Cas and me. Forever. Got it.”

He walked to the door with a confidence that he did not feel at all, and left the room.


	11. The Tower-Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The happy ending (except possibly for both Dean's butt and Sam's sanity).

The door out of the ball-room opened into a narrow corridor that ended at a spiral staircase. Dean went up what felt like forever, until he came to a solid-looking wooden door. Pushing it carefully open, he went inside.

It was some sort of bedroom, opening out onto a balcony. A large nine-pointed star had been painted on the floor, and in the middle was an ornate draped bed. And on that bed, deathly white and immobile, was a certain scruffy angel, black wings and all.

“Found you at last, you angelic dick!” Dean muttered. He took the weapons out of the bag one at a time and arranged them one in each of the star's points, then stood back and waited.

Nothing happened.

Had he missed something? He checked inside the bag again, but the only thing in there was the scroll from the fortune-cookie earlier (odd, he didn't remember putting that in). He took it out and read it:

'It's not just a certain moose who's a Disney princess.'

Reality hit Dean harder that a semi at speed. Hell no! He had to kiss Cas like in Sleeping Beauty and wake him that way. That was just....

He remembered that he was wearing a negligée and panty set that was virtually see-through, had two huge hickeys on his body, and had done things of a sexual nature that, if they ever came out, would certainly lead to him having to shred his man card. He walked up, leaned over and kissed the angel.

For one horrible moment he thought nothing had happened. Then Cas made a gasping sound, his wings fluffed out and nearly knocked Dean over, and his beautiful blue eyes opened. The hunter had never seen anything so.... uh, why was the angel looking so annoyed?

“'Angelic dick', huh?” Cas growled, eying him hungrily.

Ah. 

+~+~+

Sam had worn an impressive groove in the carpet, and was pacing towards the kitchen when he heard Gabriel (who had of course found the sweets jar) gasp in shock. He turned round to see.... oh my God!

“Dean?”

His brother – his very manly brother – was naked except for socks and a sheer negligée and panty set, and had a huge hickey – ew, no two huge hickeys - on his come-covered body. There was not enough therapy in the whole USA for.....

“Excuse us”, Cas said, “but we wanted to let you both know that I am well. I am now going to take Dean to his room where we are going to consummate our relationship as loudly as possible. Gabriel, kindly sound-proof the place as best you can.”

“Cas!” Sam objected. Gabriel held him back.

“Standing between an angel and his mate”, he said. “You wanna end your life that way?”

“Dean!” Sam not-whined.

“Gotta do what Cas says”, Dean grinned cheerfully. “We're hitched, Sammy-boy. Don't wait up!”

Sam Winchester gulped as Castiel Angel of the Lord dragged his brother away to... well, for that. Surely he wouldn't... would he?

There was an ominous silence. Then a moan started low down, but rose and fell several times as the owner... 

“Caaaaaaassssss!”

“Gabriel!”

“Like I'm staying to hear my little bro getting deflowered!” the archangel grinned. “Bye!”

He vanished with the sweets jar.

Sam groaned. Why did even happy endings have to be this difficult for the Winchesters? As the next set of moans started – seriously, no-one whose voice had broken should be able to get that high - he fled the Bunker. His life could not get any worse.

+~+~+

Why yes, Sam Winchester had always been that optimistic. Which was why, the next time he pranked his brother, his brother's angel mate would covertly set the sound of Dean being very thoroughly pleasured as his phone ring. And then get Dean to call Sam when he was right in the middle of the damn mall!

THE END


End file.
